


Ai

by powerandpathos



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: Yuuri gets drunk, and Viktor’s not quite sure what to do with him. How the tables have turned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/152725449259/ai

Viktor drank an alarming amount. Sometimes he’d buy the expensive vodka from the international liquor store when they went to Saga; sometimes he drank the fragrant _sake_ that Yuri’s mother served him for free. For a figure skater, he seemed unconcerned about it.

‘I’m Russian,’ Viktor would say, with a beguiling sort of smile. ‘We can handle it.’

And Yuuri would wonder how true that was, later, when Viktor’s pale frame was flush against him, when Viktor’s words were tinged and heated and the blush on his nose crept through every part of him. His eyes never looked so dark but for when he was drunk, the pellucid blue swallowed up by blown pupils.

Viktor looked at Yuri now, a heavy, stumbling weight in his arms, and felt a flash of something that he supposed was guilt, understanding now what it had been like every time.

‘Come on, Yuuri,’ said Viktor, hand around his waist. He was warm against him. ‘Bed time.’

Yuuri made a noise like a groan as Viktor starting leading him up the stairs of the inn. ‘I was—I was havin’ _fun_.’

‘Yeah, I bet,’ Viktor muttered, trying not to let Yuuri go head first into the wooden steps. They made slow, awkward progress, and Viktor wondered how many guests they were waking up with their heavy footsteps and thudding bumps into the walls.

Viktor thought he might have been drunk too, except he had a flight to catch back to Moscow in the morning; his skin puffed with a hangover, and the paparazzi were unavoidable.

 _‘_ You won’t mind if I drink then?’ Yuuri had said early that evening. ‘For a change.’

Viktor quirked an eyebrow. ‘For a change?’

Yuuri had glanced away. ‘I always end up looking after you when you’re drunk,’ he mumbled.

‘I _think_ you’re lying,’ Viktor had said, liking the way Yuuri’s skin was flushing under his look. _I can still do that to him,_ he thought quietly, a small twinge of pleasure rushing through him.

They didn’t find out if Viktor had been lying or not. It wasn’t long before Yuuri’s mother was bringing out some of the best bottles of _sake_ and Mari’s cigarette smoke was curling around the old wood of the inn’s bar. The Grand Prix Final was still playing on the TV over the bar, a repeat from the week before that no one had tried to turn off.

Viktor didn’t mind that it was the thirteenth time he’d watched Yuuri’s routine; he didn’t mind that he got see the way Yuuri’s body curved and slinked across the ice through the routine—how he became something _other_. This entity that was impossibly focussed and a little impatient and _confident_. So confident.

Viktor watched it—fourteenth time, that evening—and marvelled at the change. He remembered Yuuri’s bowed head the year before. The way Yuuri had walked away from him at the airport, something heavy and dark carried on his shoulders. And on the TV his shoulders were back and his neck was long and his eyes weren’t shuttered and hidden.

On the TV, he was a remarkable mix of openness and unattainability. It was a heady kind of mix, because Yuuri was sometimes neither with him: closed off, usually, and waiting for him. An arm, shaking, flung across his eyes; a mouth waiting to be kissed. It made something curl in the pit of Viktor’s stomach.

He managed to get Yuuri into their room at last, and Yuuri was clinging to him and giggling quietly into the crook of Viktor’s neck as he slid the door shut with his foot. It would have been irritating if Viktor hadn’t known, really, that Yuuri had to put up with this from him most of the time, and if he didn’t find himself actually quite hopelessly charmed. 

‘Arms,’ Viktor said, pushing him back onto the bed with a gentle shove. Yuuri went with a quiet whoosh of breath.

He lay there on his back, feet pressed into the floor, and held his arms up to the ceiling, like he was seeing constellations among the wooden beams and reaching for them with curled fingers. He was grinning, loose and unabashed.

Viktor looked down at him and sighed. He gathered the hem of Yuuri’s long-sleeved shirt in his hands, and pulled it up. It caught beneath his shoulder blades, and Viktor had to climb onto the bed to get a better grip, straddling Yuuri’s thighs.

‘Hello,’ Yuuri murmured, lips twitching at the corners.

‘Hello,’ Viktor said. His mouth was aching with the effort not to laugh. _Oh dear,_ he thought. _He’s cute._

He got the shirt over Yuuri’s head eventually, leaving his torso bare and flushed from the alcohol, pebbling from the chill December air that leaked through the old, splintered window frames of the inn.

His trousers came next, easy to unbutton, and Yuuri laughed when they got stuck around his ankles.

‘You’re going to wake everyone up,’ Viktor warned him, but he knew his eyes were shining to look at.

Before him, Yuuri was a sight. Sort of ruined, but with that kind of bright tinge of youth that wavered hazy and light at the edges. It was in the lift of his eyes, the quirk of his mouth, the way he trembled and didn’t seem to know what to do with his limbs. The mussed crop of his dark hair, and the way he lay there _waiting_ for Viktor to do something. To tell him what to do—to guide him.   

‘Not tonight,’ Viktor told him softly. He rummaged through the set of drawers against the wall, and found an old t-shirt and cotton bottoms.

‘You always want me naked,’ Yuuri mumbled, as Viktor pulled his arms through the t-shirt in an awkward movement. Yuuri’s limbs felt too pliant; it was strange for him to be so thoughtlessly complacent, and Viktor wasn’t quite sure what to do with him.

‘ _Correction_ ,’ Viktor said, pulling off Yuuri’s glasses. He set them on the side table. ‘I _like_ you naked. But I also like you in my costumes. And I like you in your training clothes. And I like you in a suit in an interview.’

Yuuri’s eyes were wide. ‘You’re _hot_ for me,’ he whispered.

Viktor felt the startled laughter in his throat, letting it slip into a muffled cough against his fist. ‘Yes, Yuuri,’ he said. ‘I’m _very_ hot for you.’

‘Mm. That’s good.’

Viktor watched him for a moment, something pleased settling onto Yuuri’s face. It was like, even now, he had yet to accept that Viktor wanted him. In every way. Like everything they were and everything they’d done by now hadn’t been enough.

‘You knew that, though,’ Viktor said, testing. ‘You knew that already?’

Yuuri’s eyebrows drew in, a small line between his eyebrows. When he had his glasses off and no contacts, Viktor had to lean in so Yuuri could seem him clearly; close enough that he could see nothing but him, so there was nothing for his eyes to reach but Viktor’s eyes.

‘I knew,’ he said. And then his look turned impish. ‘But it’s—it’s s’prising, still. And I still like to _hear_ it.’

Viktor gave him a light swat across the top of his head, barely disturbing the hair there.

‘Ow,’ said Yuuri.

‘Hush,’ said Viktor. ‘I barely touched you.’

‘Do you want to?’

Viktor gave him a look. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘You’re too… And I’m not…’

Yuuri’s look said that he didn’t really understand, and Viktor wasn’t sure he fully did either. He just knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. This wasn’t Yuuri saying _yes—_ not really. And he didn’t want Yuuri to wait to an empty bed while he headed to the airport and for Yuuri to think that, somehow, he’d given himself up for him because of too much _sake_.

Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would stretch out against the sheets in the morning, limbs shuddering as he worked his muscles, and something slow and lazy would shape his lips despite the twinge of a headache.

But maybe not.

And Viktor had ruined things before, with a slip of a tongue like a knife edge, or an easy dismissal and the shrug of his shoulders. He couldn’t let himself do that now. This wasn’t something he could risk losing—hurting. Yuuri wasn’t something he could risk.

‘Don’t go,’ Yuuri said now. He had curled up on his side, cheek pressed into his pillow. His eyes glanced out at the corners to look at Viktor. He looked startlingly young.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Viktor told him, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him over a shoulder. He rested a hand on Yuuri’s calf.

‘You are,’ said Yuuri. His voice was small and breath-like. ‘You’re going back to Russia. Without me.’

‘Only for a few days. You’ll be glad of the break.’

‘What if—what if you find something better,’ Yuuri whispered. He was not looking at him now, and Viktor felt something hitch in his chest. ‘What if you forget me when you go or—or you decide to stay or—’

‘Yuuri,’ said Viktor. He had his coach voice on, but sometimes it was the only thing Yuuri would listen to. ‘I’m going to see my _papka_ in the Moscow suburbs. There’s _really_ nothing that will catch my eye that could compete with you.’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t—see yourself the way I do. You don’t know how much you astound me. I can’t look away.’

‘But you’ll be in Russia and I’ll be here.’

‘Then you’ll have to send me a picture,’ Viktor said. He kept his tone light and warm. It was too easy to be sharp, but looking at Yuuri now made him feel warm. Viktor leaned back on his elbows, looking down at him. Yuuri’s breath was hot against the skin of Viktor’s arm, and when he leaned in slightly it smelled of sake, floral and like sharp green apples.

Absently, he ran a thumb across Yuuri’s lower lip, and bit the inside of his cheek when Yuuri’s tongue darted out to catch it.

‘ _Yuuri_ ,’ Viktor warned.

‘You started it.’

Viktor sighed. He glanced at the clock above Yuuri’s dresser. There would be a taxi coming for him in six hours. He moved off the bed, relishing in the small sound of protest Yuuri made, a moment of loss, and stripped down to his briefs before climbing back in beside Yuuri.

He pulled the duvet over them, the heat of their bodies spreading warmth through the small space in moments. Viktor made a sound in the back of his throat as Yuuri shifted to move back against him, body flush against him.

‘So forward,’ Viktor murmured, snaking an arm around his waist, hand resting on the bare skin of Yuuri’s hip. Usually Viktor was reaching for him—grabbing at him when it was this kind of intimacy.

Yuuri gave touches and hugs so easily, but this was the sort of thing that usually needed Viktor—that usually left Yuuri blushing and tucked into himself, like there was something he couldn’t quite cross by himself yet. The forwardness of him, as he was now, heated and spurred by the liquor, was warming and surprising.

Viktor quite liked this Yuuri.

‘What will you do in Moscow?’ Yuuri asked him. His voice was quiet and slipped through the darkness of the bedroom. Through the window, snow fell silent and smothered Hasetsu in a haze of thick white. The lights from the Castle leaked down onto the town, leaving it to glow white and soft through the glass panes.

Viktor could make out the skin of Yuuri’s neck, the soft gathering of dark hair at the nape. He could see the flash of a pale wrist peeking out beneath the duvet over Yuuri’s shoulder. Viktor had never known himself to be so awed by such little things; the kind of feeling when Yuuri let him have everything, every part of him, stole his breath.

‘Probably sit in my _papka’s_ living room and watch your Grand Prix skate,’ Viktor told him, imagining and knowing just how the trip to see his father would pan out. ‘He’ll critique it every way he can. Then we’ll go the bar and drink _kvass_ and vodka and eat pickles until neither of us can stand. Then… He’ll probably make me skate for him so he can critique _me._ And then we’ll go back to the bar. Fit church in at some point. And repeat.’

‘Sounds harsh,’ Yuuri said. Viktor heard the slur in his voice, thick with _sake_ and fighting off the pull of sleep.

‘Sounds like my _papka_ ,’ said Viktor, a little nostalgically. He owed a lot to his father, and returning to Moscow was always bittersweet. If he hadn’t pushed him there would be no Grand Prix Finals or championships. There would be no Yuuri.

He was not romantic enough to admit that the latter was inherently better than the former—they were _different_. But the possibility of the latter certainly made his chest ache in a way that he couldn’t quite describe.   

Viktor sighed. The minutes were slipping away. ‘We should slee—’

‘ _Ai shiteru yo_ ,’ Yuuri murmured.

Viktor… went still. For a moment, he could not hear anything. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. ‘What was that?’ he said eventually, slowly, trying to work his mouth around the words.

Yuuri response was mumbled, but Viktor caught the _ai_ again. Real, and honest. Tinged with heavy tiredness and the slowly fading haze of liquor. But there.

Viktor knew little Japanese. But there was one thing he had made Minako teach him, just in case, and she had given him a slow, appraising look. Helped him with the syllables and the soft pronunciation.

‘There are other ways of saying it,’ Minako had said. ‘But this way… It truly _means_ it. This is like… performing _Eros_ and _Agape_ at once. It is everything. It’s not flippant.’

He’d said, ‘Yuuri said he wouldn’t call it love. He said it was more abstract—that it was understanding. Last time.’

‘That was then,’ Minako said. ‘One day he’ll mean this. Yuuri defies convention but sometimes he’s actually pretty much like everyone else. Except—’

‘Except it’s still different. Even with him.’

She’d smiled at him. ‘Even with him.’

And now, he heard those words echoing in his head. The softness of them. How they lingered in the air, shivering. Viktor swallowed, felt something shifting in his jaw. Why did his throat feel so thick?

‘Yuuri?’ he said, because he couldn’t stand if Yuuri had fallen asleep and didn’t get to hear this back, even if, maybe, he’d have forgotten it by morning.

Yuuri shifted, pressed his back closer against him. ‘Mm?’

Viktor closed his eyes. ‘I— _Ai shiteru yo._ ’

The sound that came was a sigh, full of contentment. Of knowing. And Viktor couldn’t help the smile he pressed—almost hid—between Yuuri’s shoulder blades. Because maybe Yuuri doubted things sometimes. Maybe, sometimes, he doubted Viktor. But the sound of him then, the sureness of it, the deep, curling satisfaction that came from his toes and all the way upwards, said that he did not doubt this.

**Author's Note:**

> http://thefearofthetruth.tumblr.com/post/152725449259/ai


End file.
